


Uncanny

by Killer8ees



Series: Hesitation [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Demons, Developing Relationship, Graduation, High School, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer8ees/pseuds/Killer8ees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graduation is almost upon us and Fukurodani will have to figure out how to cope with the loss of its ace. More specifically, Akaashi will have to cope with the loss of his long-standing crush if they can't get Bokuto recruited for a Tokyo university so he can visit often. Meanwhile: Kuroo is busy being a bad influence and trying to get with Tsukishima, and instead gets much more than he bargains for. Everyone is just learning how to do healthy relationships, but after a series of potentially magical events, communication is not the only problem these kids have. </p><p>Starts off canon-compliant-ish and then pops the fuck off. Super slow build but once shit hits the fan, we in it.<br/>Tags/characters will be added as we go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inertia

There’s a crack on the other side of the court when Bokuto’s service ace connects with the polished floor just an inch in front of the backline. Bokuto’s been hitting hard serves the whole set but this one feels different—sounds different. Akaashi had a good feeling about this one, something about that toss just felt right the moment it left Bokuto’s hand, something about that jump just felt perfect, calibrated, too good to be true. He doesn’t even have to watch the Ace’s moves now. He can’t tell if that shows his skill as a setter or just how insufferably good Bokuto is at getting under people’s skin, but it’s true. And the whole court, hell the whole gymnasium, falls silent as the sound echoes over the rush of the other games on the adjacent courts.

“Fucking hell—“ someone says.

The whistle sounds.

Akaashi’s got a good feeling about this last set.

 

*** * * * ***

 

“That was,” Akaashi huffs. They’re sitting in a random hallway after the game, pulling off their knee pads, stowing away their dirty uniforms. Despite the cool-down run their coach sent them on, they’re all still buzzing with energy from the match. Akaashi sits with Bokuto (like he always does), their legs just barely not touching as they stretch on the ground. Everyone has been piling on Bokuto since that first good shot and he’s hardly gotten a second with his ace. “That was—you were good today.”

“Hey hey hey! Thanks, Akaashi!” He says, a little too loud, still hyped from all the adrenaline. “I mean, I am the ace after all! I’m supposed to have good games!” He grins, pulling on his Fukurodani jacket from his duffel bag.

Obviously. Akaashi can’t help but smile a bit, pleased at the simplicity of the whole thing. Sometimes it feels good when things are self-evident.

Gathering at the other end of the hallway are adults in serious suits, the fabric crisp and pressed in all the right places. Others are holding cameras the size of their own heads—their bodies, moving little mountains of expensive gear, making the collection of grown-ups look even more dense as they crowd the hall. Akaashi side-eyes them; a couple are probably reporters from the volleyball magazines that actually care what high schoolers are up to, and a few more recruiting coaches from colleges, he figures. Akaashi can’t help but be a tiny bit jealous, though he knows he’s only a second year and his recruiting season would be a ways off from now, even if he were as good as Bokuto (and he knows he’s not). Bokuto’s already received offers. Akaashi was there when he first lost his shit in excitement over it, til it kept happening and now it’s more of a nuisance as an ever-increasing number of old people keep asking him about his post-high school plans. But he can tell by their super serious faces this isn’t some B-school regional university. These are probably national universities. Maybe even Tsukuba. Maybe even Tokyo.

“Looks like you’ve got company,” Akaashi says, half under his breath.

Bokuto makes a psssh sound, “Those guys suck, they always take way longer than they say just to ask boring questions and talk my ear off. Blegh!” He scrunches up his face and sticks out his tongue and Akaashi can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. “Not worth the time.”

Akaashi rolls his eyes because he knows that’s not true. “Koutarou…”

“Mm?” He asks, looking up from his stretch.

“Don’t be rude,” he pokes him right between his eyebrows.

Bokuto laughs like a little kid who’s easily amused, and sits up fully. “Fine, fine. But it might take a while so don’t wait up, yeah?”

“As if,” Akaashi frowns, “I have to practice my own serves today, I’ll probably take longer than you will.”

“Eh? But we won. Coach isn’t going to make you do 100 serves—“

“But you won’t be here next year. Someone’s going to need keep our offensive service together.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto blinks, “I guess. I hadn’t thought about that, really.”

Akaashi can feel the air shift. Ah shit, he remembers now. No one can bring up graduation to Bokuto—his heart can’t take the thought of parting with the team and his owls just yet.

“So--!” Akaashi continues before Bokuto can get upset, “So you better hope there’s a coach from Tokyo U in that bunch, so you can stay close by and keep helping us with practice.”

Bokuto stares for a second, tense and scrutinizing, and Akaashi is worried the damage is already done. Then cracks a tiny smile he cracks a tiny smile. Crisis averted. “You really think I’m good enough for Tokyo U?”

Now it’s Akaashi’s turn to stare.

“Bokuto, I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

He gives him a blinding smile at that and hops up. “Alright, well if Keiji says it, it must be true.” Akaashi’s heart does a goddamn flip and he hopes he’s not blushing. “I’ll text you when I’m done, and if you’re still doing serves in the school gym I’ll stop by.”

“You don’t have to— It’ll be late— You should get rest after that--”

“Well this is gonna go late too,” he shrugs. “Besides, it’s on my way home anyways.”

Akaashi knows that’s not really true but doesn’t say anything. Bokuto gives him a final wave before heading off to the adults, being swarmed by suits and camera flashes as soon as he’s over there.

 

*** * * * ***

 

He can hear Konoha scoff in the background and goddamnit, Akaashi doesn’t need his shit right now.

“Don’t tell me this is some sort of secret cry that you want to switch positions and be a spiker now, Akaashi.”

He can feel his ears heating up but he’s doing his best to stay fucking cool right now. “Dumbass, it’s not for me.”

“Then who’s it for? Just grabbing a souvenir from Nationals for your little sis?” Konoha asks, draping an arm over his shoulder. Akaashi wants to die on the spot from embarrassment. He gently touches one of the t-shirts they’re selling here in the stalls out here. Usually it’s the team’s family members who fall for this money-suck. Any of the actual players know there are much cheaper and easier ways to get volleyball t-shirts, but he knows Bokuto’s into it. The cheesy slogans on the back, the inspirational quotes, and the shitton of exclamation points, they’re all exactly up his alley.

“Sure.” Akaashi says, dismissive and trying his hardest to just pick something and get out before the rest of the team comes back from the bathrooms and notices.

“Is she thinking of becoming an ace these days for the middle school team?”

“Not no,” he says non-committal, finally grabbing one and getting his money out.

“Uh huh.”

“Yep.”

“Mhm.”

“Mm.”

He takes the plastic bag full of shirt and Konoha’s fixing him with a look. Akaashi tries to stare back as impassively as possible but it’s easier said than done.

“That’s a good color. Blue goes with his whole aesthetic,” Konoha smirks.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

As he starts walking back to the bus, he hears Konoha call after him: “Pity, the whole team definitely will!”

Goddamnit, Akaashi doesn’t need this shit right now.

 

*** * * * ***

 

 

He tosses—

and jumps—

and—

the ball connects with his hand,

 

but.

He can feel the angle’s not quite right as it soars, then grazes the net and flops.

Lame. Still useful, definitely. But definitely lame.

That would’ve been a hard ball to dig for the opponent, but it’s nothing like a cannon. It’s nothing like Bokuto’s today, or even Bokuto’s on a bad day (well, Bokuto on a bad day means the ball keeps going out of bounds, so maybe it is a little better than that). He can’t decide if he should be working on floating jump serves or just a mean jump serve, and he thinks maybe that’s the problem—it’s hard to learn two serves at once, who knew.

He sighs when he notices he’s doing it again—that overanalyzing. Bokuto would’ve told him just jump and swoosh and waaaah.

“Fuck it,” he mutters and tries again.

He started at 18:00 when the sun was already getting low and barely crawling over the horizon and through the windows. The little snakes of sunlight have all died off now. The only light comes from the gross fluorescent overheads that dye the whole gym a fetid hue. It used to give him headaches at first, but Akaashi’s evenings almost always end like this. Him and the gym and little else.

 It’s going on 20:00 when he hears the door open and the squeak of sneakers against the polished floor.

“You didn’t text me!” Bokuto calls out from the other side of the gym.

“Sorry,” Akaashi apologizes without explanation, picking up another volleyball from the bin and assuming the serving position.

Bokuto seems satisfied with that alone and stays quiet as Akaashi breaths, jumps, swings, and—

The ball goes over, landing squarely just before the back line.

He frowns. Still not enough power.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Bokuto says as he walks over to Akaashi’s side of the gym, picking up a stray volleyball.

“I know.”

“You just gotta swing and—“

“Bokuto, I know.”

“I know you’re strong, Akaashi, I know you can add power if you just let yourself.”

“Bokuto, I got it!”

Bokuto frowns. Ah fucking hell. “Sorry, I just wanted to help.”

“Yeah, I know I--,” His words fall flat. “Sorry, I’m just tired. We had a big game today, I’ve been doing this for a while, I’m just tired.”

Bokuto nods and dribbles the volleyball a bit while Akaashi reaches to pick up some of the other strays.

“You were right, Akaashi.”

Well yeah, he usually is. “About?”

“Tokyo U was there.”

He drops the balls in his arms. “Bokuto, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah,” he perks up immediately. It’s one of the few times Akaashi has given him honest-to-goodness praise with no strings attached.  “Hey hey hey! It is, isn’t it! I’m fucking amazing, bro!”

“Did they definitely say yes?”

“Kind of!”

Akaashi squints at that response.

“I mean,” Bokuto continues, “if I get my grades up a bit, yeah.”

Wait. “Bokuto, what do you mean by ‘a bit’? What did they say exactly?”

“Well I mean—a bit.”

“Bokuto.”

“Hey, I came up with a great idea walking over here!”

“How much—“

“What if I helped you on your serves and you can help me study for exams this semester?”

“Bokuto, exactly what did Tokyo say—“

“I’m sure if you help me, I’ll be fine.”

He knows exactly what that means and can’t help but make a face.

“Akaashi!”

“You idiot.”

“Hey! I won’t be an idiot anymore if you help me!”

“Even I can’t work those kinds of miracles.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whines.

He groans in the back of his throat and keeps picking up volleyballs, “Fine. But you better give me actual advice on my serves, not just sound effects.”

Bokuto grins, giving him a power pose and a thumbs up, like the idiot he is. “Since when have I, your one true ace, ever let you down?”

Akaashi rolls his eyes as he tosses the balls all in the bin, “Just don’t whine when I’m a hardass about studying.”

“You’re always a hardass, I can take it,” he agrees, tossing him the last ball.

Obviously not the only thing that’s hard, but that jokes too easy for Akaashi to make even to himself.

 

*** * * * ***

 

The walk home is cool. The streetlights lining the lonely suburban sidewalks all turned on a while ago in their fluorescent hum. The leaves are nearly all turned a paper bag brown and flutter uselessly along the usual path they always take. The Tokyo light pollution keeps the sky a dark but reddish haze. The skyscrapers a few miles away drown every damn star.  Some wisps of clouds are ferried around by the strong wind that swells every so often as December is just beginning. Akaashi pulls up his jacket closer to cover his neck as he walks his bike between them.

Maybe he’s still caught in the haze of the tournament weekend, but his heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his throat.

“Are you excited for semifinals now?” Akaashi asks to make small talk and make sure his esophagus hasn’t collapsed by now.

He grins, “Well, yeah. I mean, we get to play again. And then after that too—it’ll be great.”

“It does feel a little lower stakes now.” He muses, “even if we lose we can still play against the other losers for third place.”

“Yeah, but we won’t lose.”

“You don’t know that,” Akaashi hums.

“Akaashi, if you don’t believe you’re going to win, you won’t,” he says plainly. “So, we’re gonna win tomorrow.”

“Well,” he smiles, “I can’t argue with that logic.”

“I know, it’s really good, right?” Bokuto smiles back just as they come to the last corner before they have to part ways.

“Yeah,” Akaashi agrees as they slow under the street light. “You know, I—“ he starts, then trails off, looking everywhere but Bokuto.

Thankfully Bokuto just stands there, patiently (excitedly) waiting for Akaashi to get himself together.

“I—If. If—I mean, when, but also if—“ He’s never felt so inarticulate in his life, “we win it all, I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Like a surprise, kind of thing,” he clarifies.

“I get a surprise if we win Nationals?”

“Yes, but also like—.” He figures short sentences are best at this point. “Yeah.”

“Ok,” Bokuto smiles.

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”.

“Great. So,” Akaashi tries to patch his dignity back up, “I’ll see you tomorrow. And we’ll win semifinals. And then you can help me with my serves, for real this time.”

“Sounds good,” Bokuto nods, still smiling too loudly.

“Good,” Akaashi feels his ears burning again and takes that as his cue to leave. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says hopping on his bike. “And you better be ready to study all next week with me, ok?”

“Yeah! Next week, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Akaashi’s heart is pounding in his ears and he’s afraid he’s about to have a stroke. “Well, see you!” He starts pedaling off into the evening, his heart still blocking off all circulation to the part of his brain that doesn’t make him feel like a gigantic idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I blinked and it was way over how many words I thought this was going to take already. ffffff it's been a LONG time since I've written prose, pardon the squeaky wheels as I relearn this bicycle.


	2. Gestures

Akaashi’s alarm didn’t go off.

He might actually die on the spot. He might actually burst into flames by the shear embarrassment alone. He might actually have an aneurysm from the frustration and the stress. He quickly grabs his bag and pulls on some shorts, stuffing his feet into the closest shoes he can find. He’ll change everything once he gets there, he’ll eat when he gets there, he’ll remember how to breathe again once he fucking gets there. He runs out as fast as possible and texts his sister to tell his parents or something, he doesn’t know, he has no goddamn clue. The train station is another two blocks from his house and thank god for volleyball muscles today, and thank god for volleyball muscles.

Today is the last day of the tournament and Akaashi’s alarm didn’t go off.

He checks his messages when he’s on the train. Of course his phone has blown up with everyone asking where the hell he is. The easiest way to get to the city gymnasium would have been to meet at school and take a bus like everyone else, but the train is still an option. A shitty one that takes 40 minutes instead of 15, but an option (and it’s definitely better than biking, holy shit).

 He texts Bokuto back because he knows if he’s psyched out by the lack of Akaashi, then the whole match could be thrown off. Bokuto’s priority number one.

_Sry alarm didn’t work, on my way._

A second later his phone is already full of messages in reply:

_AKAAAAAAASHI_

_ok ok cool 1st match isn’t til 11 anyways_

_but also like coach is pissed_

_but also like don’t sweat ill cover for u_

_but also like we placed bets on wat happened_

_y couldn’t u hav said zombie apocalypse?? I owe saru $15 now_

Akaashi doesn’t want to dignify that with a response, but asks him to buy some food for him at the tournament. If the first match is at 11, he won’t exactly have a lot of time to run around looking for the nearest banana stand.

_Yea yea I got u_

_C ya soon :)_

He smiles a bit at that one.

When he does finally get to the gym, he quickly ducks into a bathroom to change into his uniform, then sets out to find his team. They’re all clustered in yet another hallway, stretching and strategizing. Bokuto’s the first to notice him approaching and he smiles like Akaashi is his favorite person, like the lateness never even happened. Coach, unfortunately, does not.

“You’re lucky we need you as a starter or you wouldn’t play at all today.”

Akaashi bows and he can hear the team (mostly Konoha) snickering and watching. “I’m so sorry, it will never happen again.”

The coach scowls but everyone knows his heart isn’t really in it. “Make it up to me on the court. And 100 serves after we win this.”

“Yes!”

 

Of course, they do actually win it.

Ish.

They come in second overall. Bokuto plays quite consistently over the semifinal match, but the final is shakier.

When they finally get to finals, they’re all tired. It’s a tough team. Etc. etc. etc. It’s the most boring reason to lose. That might be why Akaashi’s most annoyed by it; it’s a simple matter of being _better_ overall. Better serves, better receives, it’s all just basics. No amount of Bokuto-management can fix that. He was expecting more of the team to cry when they lost, but he can tell they’re all on the same page about it. They made it to Nationals. They made it to _finals_ in Nationals. Bokuto performed like a top 3 ace the whole tournament. Hell, he was the number 1 ace by Akaashi's analysis. None of them can even imagine crying at that fact.

 

*** * * * ***

 

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto starts when they’re serving later, in the same school gym he and Akaashi spend most of their evenings these days.

“Hm?” He tosses another ball and jumps. 75, only 25 more till 100.

“I just like,” he begins, speaking in a slow and measured tone. “I just can’t believe I’m gonna graduate, you know.”

Ah fuck. Akaashi has to play his cards right or god forbid he depresses Bokuto too much to study with him later. “Yeah?”

Nailed it. 76.

“That was my last tournament today.”

“Hmm,” Akaashi serves another ball, 77, “But you’ll play in college still.”

“But not with you guys.”

“It’ll be fun getting used to a new team,” He volleys another one over. 78. This one makes a clean arc, but it’s simple and solid. Nothing brusque like he needs it to be.

“But you guys are my team,” Bokuto protests, dribbling a ball. “Unless--!” He gasps, and Akaashi pauses just before he tosses another ball up.

“Unless?” He asks, with a single raised eyebrow.

“You don’t care if I leave? You want me to go?” Bokuto asks with a horrified expression.

“Bokuto…”

“Akaashi, is that it?”

“Bokuto, of course not.”

“You just want me to leave? I’m too much of a handful?”

Usually Akaashi would humor him and let him emotionally work it out on his own, but he’s got shit to do today and even he isn’t that much of a sadist.

Akaashi tosses the ball at his head and goes to his bag.

“Akaashi?” Of course, Bokuto catches it easily. But now he’s got tears in his eyes, “If you’re tired of me, just tell me. I can take it, but—but I want you guys to know—“

“Koutarou, please be quiet for a second,” He says plainly and Bokuto immediately hushes. Akaashi pulls out the bright blue shirt and comes back over, thrusting it out for Bokuto to take.

“What--?”

“I told you I had a surprise for you today.”

“If we win—“

“We did win,” Akaashi interrupts. “We made it to finals in the national tournament. I got to toss for you for seven sets. I got to toss for you for two years, and--.” Akaashi’s not sure where he’s going with this, but he knows it’s going to be overly sentimental, even for Bokuto who bleeds sentimentality. “And it was good.”

Bokuto stares, surprised. Akaashi takes a deep breath and takes that as a cue to continue, “We’re good together. The team is going to be different without you, but we’ll work really hard to make sure you’re still proud of us just the same. So,” he pushes the t-shirt into Bokuto’s hands and the volleyball falls lamely to the floor, rolling away.

“You’ll always be our ace. That’s just a fact. For this Fukurodani team, this year the ones that got all the way to Nationals and won more than any other previous Fukurodani team, you will always be our infuriating, impulsive, capricious, and--,” he can feel the blood rushing to his face, he fidgets with his fingers and picks the skin by his cuticles, “and super cool ace. And--. That’s that.”

He feels hot all over, nervous sweat prickling the back of his neck. Akaashi will never give another speech like that as long as he lives, he fucking swears. Bokuto is still silent, just staring at the t-shirt.

Akaashi can’t take it—he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or the rest of him. He turns around to pick up another ball. As the silence stretches and he walks back to the service line.

Bokuto still stands there, frozen to the stop, tears welling up in his eyes. “Akaashi…”

“Hm?” 79. He’s actually a bit pleased with that last one.

“You really think--?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it,” He states plainly. “Now,” he picks up another ball, “I kept my promise. Are you going to keep up your promise and help me with this?”

Bokuto sniffles and wipes his eyes before jogging over to the back line too.

80.

 

*** * * * ***

 

They do, thankfully, spend the next week studying. Bokuto all but lives at Akaashi’s house as they prepare for exams, sitting cozy under his kotatsu, falling asleep with cooled platefuls of leftover curry. They settle into a  simple routine as classes finish up—volleyball practice, walking home, working for a couple hours but eventually, inevitably, looking up volleyball videos.

“You know,” Akaashi says one evening, rolling the last bit of chicken around in his rice, “you use angles every day in volleyball games and practice. I know you know this, you just gotta put it on the page.”

Bokuto just groans loudly, his head buried in the pile of math worksheets. “That’s exactly why it’s hard though. If I know where everything’s gonna go, can’t I just draw it out? Who’s even going to use this geometry and trigonometry shit?”

“You will,” Akaashi states obviously.

“Yeah but not like this.”

He rolls his eyes and points at another problem with his chopsticks, “This one is the same as the last one.”

Bokuto grunts in response.

He knew this would be quite the boulder to push up the Sisyphean mountain but he knows even Bokuto’s head can’t be so thick.

Akaashi sighs, puts his bowl aside, and lies his head on the table next to Bokuto’s, “Koutarou…”

Bokuto looks over at him but doesn’t pick up his head.

“If you finish this sheet, we can watch a couple videos after,” he bargains.

“There aren’t any good ones up this week, it's not worth it.”

Impassive Bokuto is just annoying. He’s fine with Bokuto having mood swings, but every once in a while the pendulum settles in the middle, in a valley of apathy. And Akaashi’s the apathetic one here.

“If you finish this sheet we can go outside then, and practice for a second.”

“I don’t want to just practice serves and receives. We can’t do anything without a real net and court.”

Bokuto covers his head with his arms, hiding away like a turtle. Akaashi’s had enough now.

“We can call Kuroo if you finish the next two sheets.”

He perks up at that. “Seriously?”

“Finish the next two sheets and get through an English vocab practice quiz.”

“Akaashi!” he whines.

“Once your boyfriend gets here, you guys aren’t going to finish anything for the rest of the night. You don’t get off so easily.”

Bokuto sits up and frowns, “Fine, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

He snorts, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Rarely does Akaashi speak before he thinks. He's being petty, he knows it the second the words come out. But he has a special penchant for putting his foot in his mouth when it comes to the love life of a certain wing spiker, and he instantly regrets it. Or at least, he instantly regrets showing it.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whines, poking him with his pencil’s eraser, “he’s not even my type.”

“We can figure out your type later once you finish this worksheet,” he says, rerouting the conversation back to a topic he can discuss without saying anything too stupid.

“Nah, I already know my type.”

“Bokuto, just finish this please.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Kuroo’s definitely best bro material, and he’s definitely too cute, like that’s just an objective fact. And like have you seen his legs?”

“Bokuto, focus for a second.”

“Anyone would be lucky—“

“Bokuto, do it for me. Just finish this last bit up for me and my sanity.”

He quiets, and shrugs. “Fine,” he says, picking up his pencil and pulling the sheet out from under the constant pile of work to get through. Turning his attention to the work at hand, “Whatever you want, Akaashi.”

Akaashi sighs in relief, getting back to his own work and texting Kuroo to come over in an hour (…better make it two).

 

There’s a knock on the door that can only be described as “fucking obnoxious,” and it’s obvious who it is.

By the time they get downstairs, Kuroo’s already talking with Akaashi’s mother, sipping tea at the kitchen table, “So Kuroo,” Akaashi hears his mother begin, “Have you finally settled down and gotten a girlfriend?”

Kuroo laughs, “Even if I get a girlfriend, no way I’m going to settle down any time soon.”

“Mom, please.” Akaashi interrupts as he stands in the doorway, trying not to make a face despite the scene in front of him. “I’m sure Kuroo doesn’t want to answer those kinds of questions,”

“Bro!” Bokuto yells as he bounds down the stairs and gets into the kitchen.

“Bro!” They do this whenever they haven’t seen each other in more than 24 hours.

“Oh Keiji,” his mother tsks, “don’t be sour just because you don’t have a girlfriend—if you followed Kuroo’s example, I would rest easy knowing I’d have some grandchildren one day.”

Never, in all his days, has someone told him to follow Kuroo’s terrible example before.

Akaashi can only think of his mother in a series of negatives—not X, but. It’s not that she’s young for a mother, but. It’s not that she’s inattentive, but. It’s not that she doesn’t give helpful advice, but. It’s not that she’s not a good at this whole mother thing, but Akaashi is de facto in charge of most things most nights. Did his sisters finish their homework? Did they get fresh groceries this week? Were the chores done? If Bokuto is the baby of the team, Akaashi is the mom—he’s had enough practice.

 “Are you three planning on sticking around here all night? You shouldn’t stress so much about your exams, you’ll get sick,” she continues, pushing her long curls back from her thin face.

“Oho ho?” Kuroo smiles over as Akaashi sits at the table with everyone else, “You two owls still busy with your nerd stuff, or did you finish up yet?”

“Yep! I passed all the worksheets,” Bokuto grins.

“Bokuto, passing is very different from actually doing well on them,”Akaashi reminds him.

“Akaashi, why do you have to spoil everything,” Bokuto whines.

“I told you I was going to be strict about this,” he says plainly.

“Well, since you are all done,” Kuroo interjects, “and since we haven’t hung out in a while,” Kuroo gets a look in his eyes and Akaashi doesn’t trust it for a goddamn second, “There is this party I know of, tonight at Yaku’s place.”

“Yes.” Bokuto says, firm and excited with an implied exclamation point just waiting to come out.

“We weren’t planning on going out,” Akaashi pushes back.

“Oh come on, you guys haven’t hung out with Nekoma in a while. When are you gonna reward yourselves for all that studying?”

“Akaashi, yes!” Bokuto’s skills of persuasion are not quite as eloquent as one might hope.

“We could also hang out here and play Smash or something. That would be fun too.”

“Akaashi,” his mother fixes him with a look and he knows there’s no winning now, “you can’t let your youth just run right by you. I won’t have you leave this house one day, regretful because you never had any fun in high school.”

“Yeah Akaashi,” Kuroo gives him a shit-eating grin, “youthful exuberance is important for a growing boy.”

“See, Kuroo understands,” his mother smiles at the Nekoma boy. It’s not that her own child isn’t her favorite, but. “Now finish your tea, get your shoes on, and you are heading out with Kuroo tonight,” his mother lectures with a sagacious tone, even as she’s telling him to be delinquent for an evening.

He sighs and sips his tea, cutting his losses in the argument for now.

 

*** * * * ***

 

They take the train to Yaku’s place and tell Akaashi’s mother they’ll crash there or at Kuroo’s for the evening (it’s fine, one of them will text her, it’s not a big deal, just have fun).

For whatever reason, Akaashi is originally expecting something more tame than the damp waft of air when they open the door. Yaku always came off as a competent libero; if Akaashi was the mom of Fukurodani, Yaku was probably the closest to mom of Nekoma too. But the minute the Nekoma teammates see Kuroo roll in (with Bokuto and Akaashi in tow), they erupt with cheers, excited that their captain finally made it to the damn party.  Already, Akaashi’s feeling overwhelmed.

The music pounds fiercely—even on the other side of the room from the speakers, he can feel the subwoofer vibrations in his bones. Someone on the Nekoma team pushed a cup in his hand, he’s not sure what’s in it but it doesn’t taste too rancid—maybe that’s more concerning than if it was pure vodka. Jungle juice is dangerous. A greenish hue is cast over the room from some strobe light in the corner and it makes the whole humid place feel more like a swamp. There’s a stagnant pool of dancefloor bodies, and Akaashi lost Bokuto in the muck of sweat and sticky alcohol about five minutes after getting into the room. Every once in a while he can see the tips of the boy’s hair emerge over the surface of other heads, but it’s brief, and before he knows it he’s lost him again. Akaashi is hugging the corner of the room, sitting closest to a window to get some air, but he still feels like his head is being held underwater. Maybe that’s the alcohol kicking in.

“Gotta admit, you do a great impression of a stick in the mud,” Kuroo says, suddenly at his side, leaning on the open windowsill as well.

“It’s just not my scene,” Akaashi says dismissively, draining the rest of his cup.

“Oh my mistake, I meant that’s a good impression of the stick up your own ass.”

“I told you I wasn’t planning on going out.”

“Well now that you’re here,” he says, taking a long sip from his own cup, “You might as well enjoy it like a normalass high schooler. Besides, this is Yaku’s last party before he graduates. You wouldn’t want to let Yaku down, would you?”

“Yaku and I aren’t that close,” he says, a pure statement of fact.

“This is a perfect time to change that,” Kuroo grins, grabbing his hand and pulling him from his shore and into the waters. “Besides, I need a wingman for a second.”

Akaashi snorts incredulously, but allows himself to be dragged along, clinging to Kuroo’s hand as people push against them, caking them in stranger sweat. They wind their way past people and through dim rooms, until finally they emerge, miraculously, in the cool, bright kitchen.

Yaku and Kenma are just sitting at the counter, Kenma playing his DS and Yaku sipping a beer. Kuroo lets go of Akaashi and heads to the fridge to get another two beers while he gets his bearings. He has no mental map of this house. He feels like Kuroo pulled some magic to make the quiet kitchen appear when there are so many people crowding the other rooms.

“So,” Kuroo begins as he puts the beers on the counter and starts getting to work with the bottle opener, “Daichi just texted me Karasuno’s coming down since they finished their exams last week.”

Crack, fizz. He pushes a beer over to Akaashi as he sits up at the counter with everyone else. “They touch down in like an hour, I figure,” another crack as the beer cap yields, “So we have to commence Operation: Seduce Tsukishima.”

Yaku, Kenma, and Akaashi just stare at him.

“It’s necessary!” Kuroo explains, “My usual tactics haven’t been working, you should be honored I’m asking your help on this!”

“Could it be,” Akaashi asks turning to Kenma, “Kuroo’s finally getting old and his good looks are failing?”

“My looks are fine, thank you very much!”

“I’m pretty sure I saw he had a grey hair yesterday,” Yaku agrees, “That must be it.”

Just as Kuroo is about to protest again, Bokuto emerges into the kitchen doorway. His shirt is darkened and perspiring. Shirofuku with her arms wrapped around him and vice versa. They’re laughing as they, too, come up and crowd the counter.

Akaashi feels the energy of his haven shift. He feels seasick—the green of the dance floor, the yellow haze of the kitchen, pure bile threatening the back of his throat. He feels his mental cogs slipping against one another like pond sludge gumming up the works. Something doesn’t click here. And he doesn’t like that.

“Bro! You gotta help,” Kuroo sits up from the counter, “Tsukishima’s coming, I need a wingman and these nerds suck!”

Yaku frowns, “You realize we're both in the same college prep class, right Kuroo?”

Shirofuku goes to the fridge to pick out more beers while Bokuto leans against the counter, wedging himself between Yaku and Akaashi. Their skin touches briefly, the sleeve hem of their t-shirts brush and he can feel the other boy’s warmth. The cogs click back into place.

“What do you need me to do?” Bokuto asks, simply. Of course he’s immediately on Kuroo’s side.

“We’re strategizing right now,” Kuroo explains. “So far the usual’s not working, what are some foolproof next steps?”

“Have you considered,” Kenma finally looks up from his DS to speak, “asking him out?”

The whole room goes silent.

Unfortunately, Kuroo has never actually asked someone out like a normal human being. The boy relies on innuendos  and smiles. “Do you want to get out of here?” “Your place or mine?” Mouth meets mouth and the rest goes from there. A series of “Yes”es prompted only by more mouth meeting other parts. To actually utter the word “date” has never been done. Consider his lips virginal. Ish.

“Well, damn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured a subplot was the way to go, fingers crossed I can address it properly lol it's always difficult writing scenes with a lot of characters tho. (my notes are boring, cry)


	3. Impulse

The whole Tokyo contingent is on edge at this point. When Karasuno touches down (more accurately, when Tanaka’s sister pulls up into the driveway), there’s an immediate eruption of cheers when the team comes in.

Akaashi is still hiding away in the kitchen, decidedly not good at these things. He’s happy to hear how the whole thing goes after the fact, but he doesn’t need front row seats to the show. Bokuto, however, is instantly out there with his bro, trying to encourage him from afar, Akaashi imagines, but failing and getting caught in the midst of his staring by Tsukishima.

“You’re not going to help Kuroo?” Shirofuku asks, also one of the few left in the kitchen. Kenma, as usual, is still playing his game, nursing a bit of a beer but Akaashi can’t imagine he’s all that buzzed.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Akaashi says plainly, taking along sip.

“You say that about everyone though,” she smiles.

“I say that about people who are pains in the ass. I just happen to be friends with a lot of them.”

“Does Bokuto count as one then?”

He grunts noncommittally and takes another sip.

“Ugh! You two are almost too painful to watch!” Shirofuku whines, stretching out flat over the counter. “The whole team knows, you know.”

“You mean Konoha spread the rumor through the whole team.”

“I bet even he knows, at some level.”

At that Akaashi quiets a bit. Has he considered this possibility before? Certainly. Once he first noticed it was indeed a crush he had on the ace spiker, he was afraid every time he breathed in Bokuto’s direction, he would figure it out. But, seriously?

“This is Bokuto we’re talking about, Shirofuku. I know all his weaknesses. First hand, I know exactly how dense he is. He most certainly does not know.”

“I’ll bet you you’re wrong,” she says, sitting up and giving him a knowing smile he doesn’t trust for a second.

“Why? Did you tell him?” He asks, calmly. He refuses to get flustered over this.

“No,” she shrugs, cracking open another beer, “but let’s just say, I have my sources.”

“Konoha is not a source.”

“It’s not Konoha! Do you think _I’m_ that dense, Akaashi?”

Kenma makes a noise and really, Akaashi feels betrayed at this conversation.

“Fine,” he says, draining the rest of his beer and getting another one. “Fine, I will bet you that he has no idea.”

“Oh? Does that mean--?” Her eyes light up, “Does that mean you’re going to tell him tonight?”

“No--!” Akaashi cuts off, still too sober for this conversation. “No, but we can ask if he thinks I do, and we’ll see then.” If there is one thing Akaashi trusts, it’s his ability to read his ace. Even if they asked Bokuto point blank, he would not make the connection that it implied Akaashi _did_ like him. Bokuto would take the question at face value and then promptly forget it in favor of a fart joke from Kuroo.

“What do I get if I win?” She asks, grinning at him.

“I’ll take you to all you can eat barbecue,” he says without hesitation.

Shirofuku immediately sits up straight, and speaks in a low, serious tone, “Akaashi,” she drags his name out for emphasis. “You know better than to dangle that in front of me.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t serious,” He’s getting riled up too now, despite best efforts.

She considers her options. ‘All you can eat’ is a hollow phrase to Shirofuku, when one’s stomach might as well be an infinite void to dump any and all food into. But it is still enticing. “What do you want in return?”

“You force Konoha to back off. He’ll listen if you say it.”

“That’s really all you want?” She asks, raising her eyebrow, “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” he nods.

“You have yourself a deal,” She holds out her beer and the two toasted with a satisfying clink before chugging the rest.

Then Akaashi moves on to the whiskey he saw at the bottom of the fridge.

That’s when things start to get weird.

 

*** * * * ***

 

After a long and devolving conversation about who would be the most trust-worthy to carry the task out, it is determined that Kenma, who has already been there for the whole conversation, would be the easiest and most unbiased in the evaluation of Bokuto’s response. The boy can read people, what better judge is there?

They decide Akaashi should be anywhere but near Bokuto when this happens. Not that Akaashi can’t keep a good poker face, but if the answer is yes, if the answer is Bokuto knew the whole time, Akaashi might literally burst into flames and die on the spot. Therefore, a drunken Shirofuku leads an even more drunken Akaashi through the sea of dancefloor bodies, green light sticking to the walls like sludge, like a claustrophobic pool, like something else Akaashi’s brain can’t quite place but it’s stressful, he’s sure. She tugs him along to what Akaashi imagines is literally the opposite end of the house, tells him to stay put and then Shirofuku disappears.

The thing about shots is that they knock you off your feet all at once. Akaashi goes from a fine buzz to completely trashed before he even has his wits about him. When he notices Shirofuku is gone, he’s already wandered to another part of the house, lost in the crowd of people without a clue where the kitchen or even the front door is.

Through a series of events and rooms and people he can’t quite place, eventually he literally walks right into Washio, tall and austere as he is.

Akaashi blinks. Washio stares back.

“Hey,” he says—because that’s what sober people say, right?

“Hey,” Washio says (boy, Akaashi really nailed that one), “Where’s Bokuto?”

“I don’t know,” he says, growing more and more self-conscious of himself as they hug the wall and half-yell over the sound of the speakers. “I think with Kuroo or Shirofuku.”

Akaashi has no idea about that last part, but he remembers Kuroo and Shirofuku and Bokuto and figures maybe there’s a reason though he doesn’t really remember why.

Washio nods once in understanding, considering it for a moment. Akaashi would bob along to the music if he wasn’t doing his best impression of a completely rational, nearly all sober person in front of Washio, one of the most intimidating players on the team. Even though he knows there’s nothing to actually front for, he can’t help but want to seem at least a base level of competent in front of an upperclassman.

Washio leans in, speaking quiet enough that only he can hear, “Sarukui and I were going to smoke, you want to come?”

“Yes,” he answers automatically. His whole body is basically on autopilot with the single goal of not fucking it up.

Washio nods once and cuts a clean path through the rest of the people, which Akaashi takes to mean he should follow. Thankfully, Washio just has one of those presences. Effortlessly, the sea of people part as they scale the stairs.

Once they enter what Akaashi guesses is a guest room based on the bed and its nondescript neatness, Washio shuts the door behind them. There’s a window Sarukui is busy leveraging, opening it up to get some airflow in the cozy bedroom. Almost immediately, the strong wind rushes in, shaking the curtains for a moment, till it dies down and they still again.  

“Bokuto’s busy,” Washio explains as he goes to the other side of the room and starts to roll a blunt off the dresser. “We can go looking for him later if we want.”

“Why do you need Bokuto?” Akaashi asks, not sure if it’s a dumb question but the words are out of his mouth already.

The window is nearly floor to ceiling, with the Tokyo skyline in the distance. The atmosphere reminds Akaashi of the glow in the dark stars everyone used to stick to their second grade bedrooms. It’s patchy and unimpressive. But even then, the moon is close tonight. He has to remind himself he can’t actually just reach out and touch it.

“It’s a tradition,” Sarukui explains. “The third years always smoke together at parties like this, but Konoha’s too drunk already and Komi’s not here.”

Yes, too drunk. Indeed. Akaashi nods, like a person who is not too drunk. Like a normal human being.

Washio moves closer to the window and with a couple flicks, it catches flame from his cheap, worn lighter.

“If we can’t find Bokuto, there’s no point in keeping it a third year-only tradition,” Saru shrugs, taking the blunt after and slowly puffing. “You really splurged this time, Tatsuki,” he says offhandedly.

Washio grunts in response, watching as Saru then hands it to Akaashi.

“Besides, Akaashi of all people isn’t a snitch,” Saru smiles at him. When Kuroo smiles like a cat, it’s intimidating. Scary, even. But Sarukui has always been warm about it.

He nods, takes the joint, and does his best impression of someone who’s done this before.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to feel the effects. If he was on the up-swing of a hard drinking binge before, the weed has put him over the edge, and then over the edge after that, and over a series of more cliffs. He sits close to the window in the hopes that the cold air will help sober him up but it’s a lost cause at this point. Saru and Washio are quiet, just enjoying the effects of the potent weed. Sometimes Saru makes a comment no one is really paying attention to, but Washio sits still. His eyes are half-focused on different parts of the room, maybe his expression has softened a bit, but not by much. He just has one of those faces.

Akaashi’s getting paranoid about the whole thing by this point. He feels clammy inside his own skin. Every little bump and sound from the party raging downstairs convinces him someone is coming up the stairs, about to bust them right now. The room already felt like a sloshing sea deck from the alcohol alone, but now it’s positively spinning. There’s enough moonlight spilling though the window that they didn’t bother turning on a light, a blue hue like indigo ink has stained the whole place from the sky’s dark glow, and now the shadows all are melding together. He reminds himself to breathe—he knows physics, he knows the walls aren’t actually closing in on him, but there’s still a nervous sweat at the back of his neck, and he starts fidgeting with his fingers without realizing it.

Washio and Sarukui seem not to notice, maybe they’re too high to. But, Akaashi as looks out the window again, and he sees it.

There are woods out just beyond the backyard, a staunch row of skeletal trees, cracking and drying in their undress from the cold air of the young winter. They look like hands, all reaching up to the shifting satellites. He swears all the stars swapped places when he wasn’t looking; he swears the constellations are backwards now. At first, he sees just a shadow out in the woods there, and thinks it’s an animal simply rustling its way through the bush and trees. But then the dark shape shifts.

He gets up and peers through the window to get a better look, squinting into the dark. The chubby little groundthing stretches out, one arm-like protrusion into the air, then another, then they spread like wings. Fat raccoons don’t do that shit. Against the sparse trees, it lifts itself. A half-attempt at flight, a bearlike awkwardness at its own indistinct shape. It scales the bark till it’s at the top of the tree, and against the moon Akaashi swears it’s staring back at him. The black blob’s eyes are bright gold saucers, and he swears it’s fucking staring at him. Even with the room spinning, even with his legs like jello, even with his own gestures in inertia, thick soup that is his brain, it’s—

The door slams open, “Hey!”

He turns, too close to the huge window already. He slips, before he can see who it is, he slips and—

He’s

falling.

 

 

Akaashi feels like he can finally see all the stars the Tokyo haze hid. The air is a shock of cold, and the air is knocked out of his lungs. His heart plummets first, he’s sure. It’s already gone splat beneath him. He tries to remember the Important Things. Anything. The final roll of credits before he cracks his face open, spills his brains and bones and everything else, on Yaku’s driveway, or a fencepost, or a rock, or something more inelegant than that. He tries to think of _anything_.

Then, all of a sudden, it stops.

 

 

He becomes vaguely aware he isn’t dead when the surface under him shifts.

He groans, and the sound of his own grating esophagus proves his life to his own ears.

“Akaashi!” He knows it’s Bokuto’s voice before the boy’s even finished that first syllable.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. The room is still unfocused, a shifting object as if the whole thing existed only in his peripheral vision. Which is to say, as he slowly sits up from the bed he can tell he is still fucked the fuck up. His stomach does an ungodly flip as he just breathes and takes in his surroundings.

It’s the same guest room, the huge, cartoonish window now closed. A single desk lamp lights the whole room, transforming it from an ink stain to a warm and soft glowing space. He doesn’t smell the slightest hint of weed. Only Bokuto is there, looking at him, patiently but concerned. Like he’s trying to be quiet and calm but his energy is biting at the bit even as he strains to be careful.

“What,” Akaashi starts and then closes his eyes, dizzy from the change in position alone. The room spins faster behind his eyelids.

“You weren’t looking so good, so I made you lay down,” he explains.

“Did I,” he opens his eyes and tries this whole speaking thing again, “fall?”

“Almost, but I grabbed you.”

He nods. What Bokuto just said probably makes sense. He opens his mouth to ask about Washio and Sarukui then catches himself. The events of the evening of too hazy and weed in Japan is a big deal, he doesn’t want to fuck his friends over if he dreamed the whole thing while blacking out.

“I’m gonna head back downstairs,” as he starts to get up, Bokuto is immediately by his side, helping him steady himself and make his way. Akaashi has no idea how much time has passed, but the party still looks quite full. As they push their way down the crowded steps, Bokuto’s arm slips around Akaashi to keep him stable and close amid the jostle of strangers. Akaashi tempts fate and clings to the back of Bokuto’s t-shirt. He feels needy and awkward but he’ll take this chance. Bokuto’s so close he can smell the detergent off his shirt. That’s the crush level that has been achieved. Akaashi actually fucking cares about these things. He fights the urge to blush and the only thing he can focus on is his pounding heart.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t realize the gas and bile threatening the back of his throat until it’s almost too late.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Um…” Bokuto struggles to remember.

“Bokuto, I’m gonna puke right now,” Akaashi tries to stress the urgency and he feels Bokuto tighten his grip around him, moving more quickly now through the high school-ers all gathered there as Akaashi tries his best to keep it together until finally, miraculously, they end up at the small tiled bathroom.

The second the door opens and the lights flick on, Akaashi is at the toilet, his insides now coming out of him. His head is still spinning as he starts vomiting, still trashed or faded or whatever happened as his stomach continues to spasm.

A second later—or something like that, Akaashi still doesn’t understand time—still with his head halfway down the toilet bowl, he hears the door click closed and machinations of it lock behind him. Bokuto sits next to him, placing two water bottles down on the bathroom floor in his reach. Akaashi gulps out a “thank you” before he empties more of his chyme. Eventually, his body stills again and he wipes his mouth with toilet paper before flushing it all down.

He calms his breathing, and leans back against the closest wall and appreciates the coolness of the plaster. He can’t look at the dated checkerboard tile of the floor without his vision spiraling with the busy pattern.  

When he looks over, Bokuto offers him a small sympathetic smile, “Hey.”

“Hey.” And then he’s puking again.

After the second extended vomit spell, his stomach is out of solids. He still can’t close his eyes without the room spinning more and more. He can only barely remember how he got down the stairs, which means it’s a toss-up whether he’s even going to remember this tomorrow or not. “Fuck this shit,” he swears quietly, trying to keep more water down.

Bokuto frowns, and reaches out even as Akaashi sits crumpled at the toilet bowl. “Sorry,” he says quietly, rubbing circles on Akaashi’s back. “I know you wanted a quiet night and I dragged you all the way here.”

“Fuck,” he swears again, another hurl and now it’s mostly liquid. He feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck just as Bokuto starts to massage his nape, trying to be comforting. Akaashi doesn’t know if he’s about to die right here, right now. Death from his heart exploding. Death by booze or weed or Bokuto. Who knows. All he wants is to stop being sick but his stomach has another violent heave and all the water he just drank is now coming out too.

“Hey,” Bokuto says quietly, his thumb brushing a tear stinging the corner of Akaashi’s eye and of course he has to cry now. Of course that is the physiological response his body goes with. Instead of stopping his digestive tract, his body has decided this is correct action. Everything feels overwhelming and Bokuto's gesture just prompts him to cry more.

“You better get into Tokyo U,” he says once the tears have started to subside. “You better pass your exams and you better stay in Tokyo.” He feels childish making these demands, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Bokuto nods and Akaashi’s still drunk enough that the rant continues, his voice rising as he goes: “We’re going to study over this weekend, really hard. We’re going to study really hard, so drink water tonight because I don’t care how hungover I am tomorrow, but you are going to study tomorrow. And then you’re going to pass your exams. And that’s what is going to happen. It’ll be like setting you a ball, so you better—“ he heaves once more, “fucking hell, Koutarou, you better slam that spike down and stay in Tokyo. I can’t do this with you hours away in some stupid, god-forsaken town.”

Bokuto laughs, because Akaashi sure is drunk if he’s making impassioned speeches while bent over like this, but nods along anyways, “I’ll hit every single one of your tosses.” The hand on his neck shifts to rub circles on his back, “What else is the ace for?”

Akaashi offers a weak smile, before puking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor bb. i relate heavily to feeling so sick you just gotta cry it out.  
> i have a lot of thoughts but a lot of them probably aren't that interesting. basically fantastic lit (the genre) is hard to write. who knows what's real (clearly not akaashi, and that's the point). weed in japan is no joke. i love fat raccoons. 
> 
> i might change this chapter blrrrrrrrp sry sry sry cry


	4. Machinations

Bokuto officially dubs this their Super Bro Bonding Cram Week of Hell and Awesome. Akaashi decides it’s best to let him get excited about it; he might finally manage to put that energy to something other than volleyball at this rate.  
  
Akaashi and Bokuto switch off whose house they study at. Akaashi’s father finally comes back from his fancy conference so Akaashi doesn’t worry so much not being around the house as often to take care of his sisters. He can’t helicopter parent his own siblings, anyways. And his family quiets down considerably whenever his father is back. Bokuto’s mother is as warm as ever—she’s the only person he’s ever seen make enough food to actually satisfy Bokuto’s black hole of a stomach. He figures she’s just glad Bokuto is, in fact, studying for once when Akaashi’s around. Even if it means another mouth to feed every other night.       
  
By Wednesday, the idea of Bokuto passing these (hell, even doing well) stops feeling like a Sisyphean boulder and more like a possibility. By Friday, he consistently passes all the worksheets and practice tests Akaashi can dig up. Over the final weekend, they barricade themselves in Bokuto’s room, a steady supply of rice balls and the occasional bowl of curry or ramen keep them alive. Every few hours, Bokuto’s mother offers a tentative knock on her son’s door and a plate of something. Akaashi always answers with an uncharacteristically brief thank you before collapsing back into the fortress of papers and pens as they whiz through the last bit of everything. Finally, magically, they make it to Sunday.

 

  
Akaashi wakes folded over the short table in Bokuto’s room. The only light on is the lamp on Bokuto’s desk on the other side of the room. Stacks of papers still cover all the surfaces like little nests, waiting for the owls to return home. In the blue-black of his side of the room, he can see the moon just peeking through the dark clouds. No sign of Bokuto in the bed or strewn and sleeping on the floor. The door is a bit ajar, so he figures that’s his best bet as he quietly pads downstairs in his socks, zipping his hoodie up against the cool of the hallway.  
  
Akaashi even doesn’t like his own house at night, even when he knows every single nook and cranny and possible crawlspace for a serial killer to hide. Let alone this only just-familiar place. The stillness is unbearable. He holds close to the railing as he goes down the stranger steps, and he sees a faint glow at the end of the hall, a bright light seeping out from the kitchen.  
  
“Of course,” he says under his breath as he makes his way over, still not totally convinced it’s not a serial killer.  
  
Bokuto is standing in front of the open refrigerator, a hand on his hip as he stares at the thing. Akaashi knows exactly what that look on his face means.  
  
He walks in, silently, and Bokuto glances his way but stays equally silent for now. Akaashi just leans back against the kitchen island, hands in his hoodie pocket as he lets the quiet stretch out.  
  
“Do you want anything?” Bokuto asks, glancing back at him. “I kinda wanted leftovers but I don’t know.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Akaashi shrugs, watching as Bokuto fidgets for another moment, then finally shuts the refrigerator door. The kitchen becomes dark as the rest of the house as the snow frosts the window above the sink. The usual maple wood of the cabinets all looks a drab grey. “You should get to bed since there is that whole exam tomorrow and all,” he says as Bokuto fumbles with the tea kettle. There’s a self-consciousness in his actions. Bokuto’s nervous energy is spilling out and he can’t figure out what to do with himself.  
  
Bokuto fills the kettle and puts it on the stovetop as he searches for the right tea in the cluttered cabinets. He grabs three or four boxes and sets them on the counter, staring at them like he did the refrigerator door. His mind becomes one-track when he’s like this, Akaashi notices. Too many options derails the whole operation.  
  
Akaashi decides for him; he plucks one of the boxes and grabs a spoon for the loose leaves. “Are you nervous?” It’s best to be direct when it gets like this.  
  
There’s a long pause, then his shoulders deflate a bit, “Yeah.”  
  
“You’ve studied and practiced though. What are you still nervous about?”  
  
“It’s not that simple, Akaashi,” Bokuto frowns, crossing his arms.  
  
“What’s not simple?” he asks as he puts the tea in to steep just before the water bubbles. He doesn’t want the tea kettle to whistle and wake up Bokuto’s mother.  
  
“It’s just,” He starts, the cuts himself off, conflicted. “It’s not volleyball.”  
  
“No shit,” Akaashi says before he can censor himself.  
  
“Yeah, exactly!”  
  
“But it’s the same thing,” Akaashi presses on. “You train and then you do well, so what’s there to be worried about?” He’s staring at the tea kettle, counting the seconds for the tea in the back of his mind.  
  
“But,” Bokuto quiets again mid-sentence, shifting his weight from foot to foot, staring at the tile grout on the floor. “But I’m good at volleyball. I’m not good at this.”  
It takes Akaashi a second to translate that.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m good at volleyball!” Bokuto repeats, “I suck at every test I take, volleyball is seriously the only thing I’m good at. Akaashi, you’re like good at basically everything, you wouldn’t understand. But seriously, I’m not good at this.”  
  
“Bokuto,” Akaashi sighs. He’s used to motivating him when it comes to volleyball, he hadn’t considered this might be a different beast.  
  
“So yeah!” He leans back against the kitchen island, not meeting Akaashi’s eyes. His silver streaks picking up the blue ambient light from outside, but his gold eyes still gleaming in the night. “So yeah, I’m worried. You spent all that time trying to help me, I don’t want to let you down,” he adds the last part as a whisper as Akaashi pours the tea.  
  
Akaashi hates that. “The last reason I want you to take this test is for me,” he says as he pours carefully. “You’re going to do well on this because you worked hard on it. That doesn’t mean everything will be perfect, but it’s going to work out.”  
  
“You’re just saying that.”  
  
“No,” he hands him a mug as well, their twin steams rising up from the near-boiling water. “Look, you have to take this test anyway. Worrying about isn’t going to change the fact it’s a requirement to graduate. Besides, if you take it and keep your cool and do well on it,” he sips, trying to think of an acceptable bargaining chip. There’s no cute girl in the balcony of a stadium here, there’s no low-hanging fruit to turn into an incentive. So he wings it. “If you do that, we can go to the shrine together at New Year and I’ll pay for all your snacks.”  
  
Bokuto blinks at him.  
  
Just as he wonders if that was too low-stakes, Bokuto breaks into a laugh—a good laugh—and smiles at him. “That’s good. That’d be good,” he nods, “let’s do it.”  
  
“Let’s do it,” he agrees. “If you keep it together on this test.”  
  
“Yeah,” he sip, the yellow #1 Mom mug obscuring his smile.  
  
Akaashi offers him a rare smile back and sips from his cartoon owl.  


 

* * * * *

  
  
The next day, in the middle of his own exam, Akaashi realizes he basically asked Bokuto on a date last night.  
  
Time seems to slow down. Immediately, his face turns bright red, heating up from his hairline all down to the base of his neck. He drops his pen uselessly.  
  
“Akaashi!” The teacher is by his desk, speaking quietly but just loud enough that everyone can hear. “Do you need to see the nurse?”       
  
“I’m fine,” he squeaks out. “It’s fine,” picking up his pen, furiously getting back to work.  
  
The second the test lets out, he’s at his phone texting someone, anyone, who might want to come with them on New Year’s. He better ask now, before everyone returns to visit far-flung family and grandparent’s houses and their annual shrine visit is devoured by relatives, girlfriends, childhood friends, everyone else but Akaashi.  
  
_Yaku: sry my older bro is in town, we’re goin w/ parents ;(_  
  
_Washio: going with my gf already_  
  
_Saru: gonna be at grandma’s_  
  
_Shirofuku: ahh sry sry sry I already asked someone out and he said yes !!!_  
  
_Daichi: I’m visiting the Tohoku shrine with Suga. Can’t get down to Tokyo that weekend._  
  
_Suga:I’m visiting the shrine in Sendai w/ the boy I told u about  :T_  
  
_Tsukishima: Parents + bro_  
  
_Oikawa: only if u make it worth my time ;p_  
  
_Iwaizumi: sry can’t_  
  
_Kuroo: Yassssssss_  
  
_Kenma: I’m around. Sure._  
  
He lets out a small sign of relief just as the teachers start to call them all back in for the afternoon exam.  
  
He notices he didn’t get a text from Bokuto about how he thought the first testing went, but he won’t push it.  
  
  
  
When he finishes, he figures he should wait for Bokuto to see how he did. He stays, seated at the bottom of the big stairwell by the main door, watching his classmates all pass and wave until the school has totally quieted. The grey of the building blends into the grey sky, drowning out all the colors as the winter drags along. The open-handed trees sit with their barren arms rustling every few minutes, it’s easy to forget there are any buds waiting for their chance.  Their twigs tremble as the sun creeps behind the horizon earlier and earlier each day. The sunset is inglorious, uninspiring, unremarkable.  
  
He fidgets with his phone, with his hands, with his shoelaces. Boring things. He picks at the cuticle till it begins to bleed a bit, then moves on to the next one. Eventually, a minute before he would’ve decided to give up and go home alone, he hears the shoes echo down the concrete steps and come to stop next to him.  
  
“Did you really wait?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi doesn’t look up.  
  
He simply stands and ignores the question, “Are you ready to head home?”  
  
Bokuto nods and they head out, the air seems to bite at them as they walk to their usual street corner.  
  
“So,” Akaashi starts after a block of silence, “how do you think it went?”  
  
“Hmm,” Bokuto hums, thoughtfully. “Dunno.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well it took forever ‘cause the teacher pulled me out after to ask if I cheated.”  
  
Akaashi stops walking, “Why would he think you cheated?”  
  
“Dunno,” Bokuto shrugs, turning to face him.  
  
“Did you cheat?”  
  
“Akaashi!”  
  
“Bokuto.”  
  
He sighs dramatically, “I didn’t cheat, have some more faith in me!”  
  
“Fine, fine,” Akaashi shrugs, taking up pace again. “If you didn’t actually cheat, that’s probably a good sign.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“It probably means you did well enough there’s no way they believe you actually took it of your own volition.”  
  
“Hmm,” he thinks for a moment, tilting his head up to the sky and his black roots look even more silver in the greying light. “Or I did so bad they can’t believe it.”  
  
“That’s impossible, there’s no lower limit for how low they expect you to do. I remember your last scores,” Akaashi states.  
  
“But that one was a really hard test!”  
  
Akaashi doesn’t respond.  
  


* * * * *

He spends winter break with his family, like every other single person on the planet. His littlest sister requires the house be decorated this year. A Christian girl in her elementary school was talking about her tree, and now she feels left out. His father flits between the hospital and home all of the time, a migratory bird never coming to rest; their home is a temporary telephone line, not a nest. More accidents now that the snow is really starting to cover the roads and all. Never a jovial man to begin with, his father gets even quieter when he’s busy like this. His mother throws herself fully into the decorating process and the house perpetually smells like pine and evergreen, like the cheap plastic of garlands, like musty thrift shop ornaments, like the winter blew its way in. It’s cute, in a way. He can’t help but notice Bokuto would appreciate the tinsel on the mantle, how the lights are hung around the windows with an odd precision his middle sister, in her 12-year-old exactingness, required. The Fukurodani volleyball groupchat always lights up whenever someone is off shopping or people are hanging out. He has standing invitations to various people’s places, but he’s not good with that social setting. He stays at home, mostly, fallen into a domestic pattern by his own inertia. Sometimes goes on a jog. Sometimes tries a new recipe. Flips through some test prep—if Bokuto is going to Tokyo U now, he should start studying soon. His grades are good, but no one’s grades are Tokyo U Good and he knows he can’t count on a volleyball scholarship to a school like that. Akaashi’s smart, after all. He knows this.

One night, though, he gets a text just after dinner from a number he’s not expecting, and for the first time he stops living in his sweatpants (or his other pair of sweatpants), bundling up in scarf and coat as his sisters eye him suspiciously and he promises he’ll be back before it gets too dark. Everyone in the house trusts Akaashi. No one bothers to ask him where he could possibly be going.

Waiting outside is Kenma, equally bundled in coat and boots, a puff of pudding hair just peeking out from his thick-wrapped knit scarf as he stands by the end of Akaashi’s gate.

“Did you walk the whole way here?” He asks, as they start down the street, bits of snow still falling, slowly. Lazily.

“Some of it.”

“How’s your break been?” Akaashi asks, making small talk even though he knows he doesn’t need to.

“Fine, haven’t done much,” he knows Kenma’s making an effort to respond and he appreciates it. He leaves the conversation at that.

The silence settles in like the snow on the ground, tucked neatly between them, disturbed only by the soft crunch of their boots down the covered sidewalk. They’re not walking anywhere in particular as far as Akaashi can tell, they’re tugged down the street by a complacency to the path. The two setters are simple. When they finally come across a small playground and sit on the domed jungle gym, it feels like a natural coming to rest.

They sit for a bit, until eventually Kenma speaks first.

“Kuroo and Tsukishima took a break so he can study for college exams in January.”

“He didn’t get a scholarship?”

“Not to his first choice,” Kenma explains. Another silence. The pacing of their conversation stretches wide, a sluggish serenity falling over with the intermittent snowflakes.

“So why are you telling me?”

“I couldn’t talk to Kuroo about it. Hinata’s a freshman. So you were the obvious one to tell,” he says as if it’s self-evident.  
      
“Thanks, I guess,” he says, shifting his weight between the hard metallic bars. “People seem to think I’m good with personal problems and stuff for some reason,” he adds as an aside more to himself.

“You’re not,” Kenma states. He doesn’t mean it as an insult, just noticing the fact out loud. “But you don’t tell people things. Stuff stays with you. You’re like a disconnected third space.”

“So like a trashcan to dump shit into,” he jokes with the hint of a smile.

“Your words, not mine.”

He can hear the smirk in Kenma’s voice and it’s fine. He likes their form of friendship, he likes the quiet of the whole enterprise.

 After another long pause, Akaashi finally asks the question. “Do you care? That they’re taking a break? I mean, are you..” He’s not sure where he’s going with the thought and lets it hang, precarious and fragile.

“I don’t,” he hesitates, “not care.”

“So--?” Akaashi stops his question short and lets Kenma fill it in, in his own time.

“It’s useless to say anything to Kuroo,” Kenma explains. “Clearly, he can’t do anything with other people’s feelings about him right now, he has exams and all. I can’t help but think about after, though.”

“After exams? Or after he and Tsukishima stop their break?” He asks, turning to look over at Kenma despite the odd angle of the jungle gym.

“Exams. I can’t help but think about whether they will or won’t get back together.”

“And you’d rather they didn’t?”

“Not sure. I don’t know what I’d rather, yet.”

Akaashi nods thoughtfully. “There’s time,” he says after a bit more silence.  
      
“Sort of,” Kenma says quietly.

“Hm?”

Another long pause, as Kenma shifts silently, unsure.

“He’s graduating. And he’s one of my only friends. Next year will be…”

“Different?”

“Very.”

“We’ll be seniors too,” Akaashi notices, thinking out loud, his breath pooling in front of him as exhaust in contrast to the cold, smoke wafting up like there’s a fire in his belly, deep deep down in its bellows. Or, like a cigarette puff. Like he’s breathed in too much shit. “We’ll have to think about exams and our last volleyball game.”

“Are you nostalgic?” Kenma asks, sitting up and looking at him.

“Depends. I’m going to miss parts of it, but,” he sighs, “I don’t know, I think it’ll be nice to just do something different with different people.”

“So yes.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Yeah, I am.”

“I’m used to the team changing,” Kenma acknowledges, squirming a bit as he cocoons himself more into his heavy jacket. “I’m just not used to the team changing without Kuroo there. Kai’s good at what he does, but it’s just completely new.”

“Uncharted territory,” Akaashi echoes, watching the snow start to pick up.

“New ground.”

“But same old shit.”

Eventually, they’re forced to head back inside just as the lampposts dull with the snow starting to cake on their glass bulbs. Akaashi walks Kenma the few blocks back to the train station.

“So, New Years?” Kenma asks for confirmation.

“Yeah, Bokuto’s place is closest to a main line station, so we can meet there.”

“We’re not doing that whole sunrise thing, right?” A bit of a groan belies the question; the whole thing is already a lot of effort.

“Nah, we can meet around 10 or something,” Akaashi starts putting it into his phone’s calendar. “That’ll give us enough time and I’m sure Kuroo will be able to get back from whatever party he’ll be at by then.”

“Ah right, he’s trying to drag me to one.”

“Are you going?” Akaashi looks up from his phone.

“A new game drops that night, so no.”  

“Great, since you’ll probably stay up playing that, 10 should give you time to pull yourself together too,” Akaashi smiles.

Kenma snorts, but knows it’s true. With a final small wave, he heads down the last block to the station, disappearing into the sheets of white now coming down against the black night, putting Akaashi’s whole street to sleep like a blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had finals and promptly died so lol  
> those essays devoured my alive
> 
> I decided to split the entire story into 3 parts, so stay tuned kids


	5. Impasse

Akaashi is early. He fidgets on the door step, self-conscious of his own punctuality. He knows Bokuto won’t think anything of it, but _he_ knows he was early. That’s enough to set him on edge. He checks his watch, adjusts his scarf. It’s cold outside but not unbearably. The snow has packed itself into something crunchy and hard, brittle under his boots when he first steps in. Bokuto’s house is a bit smaller than his and he crowds the steps to the front door, playing with his phone to look busy as neighbor kids pass on their bikes and stare at him like he a weirdo. He probably looks crazy, skittishly shifting between his feet until he’s only five minutes instead of twenty. Socially acceptable to arrive, now, even if he’s even more anxious than he was before. Deep breath, he reminds himself. It’s just Bokuto. Finally, he knocks, his gloves muffling the sound against the bright blue door.

“Hey hey hey!” 

Bokuto’s right there all of a sudden, smiling at him and pulling him in. “I was just gonna call! Mom made hot chocolate while we wait for everyone else!”

He doesn’t have a chance to take off any of his winter gear; Bokuto’s got him by the hand and tugs him all the way to the kitchen. It’s stupid and sappy but he wishes his gloves were off right now, he wishes it was bare skin touching skin instead. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto’s mother smiles, spooning cocoa into a polka dotted mug. 

“Hello,” he says as he finally disrobes, unearthing himself from the knitwear and layers. 

“Do you boys want me to pack any lunches really quick? There’s still some time before everyone gets here,” she offers. Bokuto’s mother’s bento lunches are legendary at school. And he’s seen her do it all in 10 minutes or less. 

“Mom! Ye—“ 

“No, I think there’ll be enough food there. We should be more than fine,” he says before Bokuto can take her up on the offer. 

“Suit yourselves,” she shrugs, offering him a mug as well. 

When Akaashi turns around, Bokuto’s right there, crowding him in the small space between the stove top and island. 

“Sorry,” he says when they bump, he tries to buffer the mug before it spills and his hand is right against Bokuto’s chest, faces too close, eyes locked for far too long. Bokuto’s black shirt is tight, _stupid_ tight Akaashi notices immediately. 

“My bad,” he says, but doesn’t move. 

Now, Akaashi thinks in some reptilian part of his brain, would be the chance. There’s a 12cm distance between their noses, now is a perfect chance. Before he can talk himself out of it, and overthink things and ruin it, this could still be a date if he really wanted, now— 

The door bangs. 

“Bro, we’re gonna be late and get caught in the lines!” He hears Kuroo from the outside, screaming from the threshold. 

_Ah_. 

“Oh! Mom!” 

“Yes, Koutarou?” she turns from the stove, having now added marshmallows and extra chocolate syrup to all the mugs. 

“We’re gonna head out in a sec, but is there time to finish the chocolate?” 

“You’ll have to see with your friends.” 

“Ok!” And with that Bokuto rushes off to answer the door with his mother. 

Akaashi breathes, steadying himself against the counter. He’s being ridiculous. He hasn’t seen Bokuto in a couple weeks, and the tiny bit of distance has already set his emotions on edge. Bokuto was startled, is all. That’s why he lingered, that’s what those eyes were. He drinks from his mug slowly, deliberately, trying to get his shit together. Today might be more awkward than he thought.

 

 

When they all get to the shrine, of course the lines are terrible. Kenma had mentioned he’d never been to the Meiji one so Kuroo and Bokuto both decided now is the year. Akaashi was still trying to calm himself down so by the time he fully understood the implications of the decision, they were on the train to Harajuku. It’s essentially wall to wall people with stalls gathered around, selling souvenirs and food which immediately distracts both Bokuto and Kuroo. Akaashi wishes he had the two on child leashes, he can barely keep track as they flit between booths, buying anything with meat or sugar they can get their hands on, collecting souvenirs because, when someone calls it lucky they actually believe that shit.

Eventually, after a lot of pushing and pulling and tugging through the crowds, they make it over to the chozuya to do ablutions before heading up to pray.

“What are you gonna pray for?” Bokuto asks as they all stand together, Akaashi carefully pouring the water over his hands.

“Grades, probably,” Kuroo cuts in. “Once Akaashi’s in senior year, that’s all he’s gonna be thinking about.”

“No! Don’t waste it on something lame like that!” Bokuto whines.

“Unlike Kuroo,” he deadpans looking directly at him, “I don’t have to pray in order not to fail.”

“He did say he wanted to stop by the Yushima Tenjin shrine before exams,” Kenma says with a shrug.

“H-Hey!” Kuroo’s at a loss for words.

“College entrance tests are soon,” Akaashi says, “you sure you want to leave it to chance?”

“I know exactly when the exams are, thank you very much!” He huffs, heading off. “If you assholes want to spend all day washing yourselves like dicks, fine. But I’m going to pray now!”

“Coming, bro!” Bokuto calls out as he catches up to him.

Kenma and Akaashi both sigh in unison.

“Think we overdid it?” Akaashi asks as they slowly follow up the steps to the main shrine, leisurely trailing behind.

“He’ll survive,” Kenma says. “But he’s definitely on edge about it.”

“Yeah, he’s a big kid though,” Akaashi says as they round the top of the stairs. “I know he doesn’t like to spread the word, but he is smart. Even if it’s not Todai, he’ll end up somewhere good.”

“He knows. He just doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because anywhere but Todai still isn’t Todai.”

As they come to the main shrine, Bokuto and Kuroo are already praying. Finally Kenma and Akaashi come up, and just as he’s about to bow, he catches Bokuto finish and smile at him.

Akaashi knows exactly what to pray for.

  


The train ride back is surprisingly less packed than expected. The subway cuts swiftly over the tracks as Akaashi picks at some of the food they picked up at the stalls on their way out. It was a long day. Bokuto is nestled next to him, head on his shoulder. He likes this, he thinks. Kuroo similarly is dozing off despite best efforts. Kenma plays his game, but he can tell his heart’s not in it as usual. He really likes this, he thinks.

He decides now is the time to tempt fate. He finishes his meat on the stick and wipes his hands on his pants. He watches Kuroo out the corner of his eye until he sees he, too, has finally dozed off and won’t be able to use this as blackmail material later. Then, carefully, as gently as possible, he maneuvers his arm around Bokuto’s shoulder, slipping it around to rest on his broad muscles. Of course, Bokuto doesn’t stir at all. When the boy sleeps, the boy _sleeps._ He lets out the breath he had been holding, letting his body relax against his weight and warmth. After another minute, he tempts fate again and reaches up, his hand tentatively, slowly running their way through Bokuto’s bright hair. Through some hilarious twist of fate, his hair is the oddest texture that it stay up on its own without gel. There’s nothing crunchy about it, just thick as he gently weaves his fingers through it.

At that, Bokuto shifts. Akaashi freezes. Petrified.

Then he nestles closer and settles, head buried in Akaashi’s neck. The boy blushes from the tip of his hairline to the base of his neck. He breathes, then starts again.

He glances up after another minute, and Kenma is staring at him. Kuroo’s still asleep, lightly snoring, but he can tell Kenma saw it all and he starts to blush all over again under that inscrutable stare.

He whispers and Akaashi’s not even sure if he heard it right. “He doesn’t know. Don’t worry.”

Ah.

Wait.

Oh. _Oh._

The bet.

He blinks, looks down at Bokuto, back at Kenma, down at Bokuto. Over at Kuroo. Back at Kenma. “He doesn’t?” he whispers, but Kenma’s already gone back to his game.

 

* * * * *

By the time they all end up back at school to finish off the last couple of months before graduation, Akaashi’s obsessed every which way about potential ways to drop the hint a bit more clearly to Bokuto. The train ride home from the Meiji shrine was good—too good. It felt like a necessary thing. Like a normal thing. Like he’s not sure how to be a real person within that in his life in some capacity. On the day after Boktuo gets his official offer to Todai, he asks if he can treat him to a nearby diner after school, and spends the whole evening trying to think up schemes to just kiss the boy. Eventually, at the moment of truth on the street corner, he chickens out.

Another time, Kuroo is throwing a party in honor of his Todai acceptance letter (apparently, Akaashi thinks to himself, breaking up with Tsukishima paid off, but he’d never say that shit out loud), and of course everyone is invited. Including Tsukishima, which Akaashi worried about when he heard, and of course it does indeed blow up at the actual party. As he downs drink after drink to try and find the courage to dance with Bokuto at the bottom of one of the bottles, just as he approaches the boy in the middle of the floor, Kuroo swoops in, pulling him aside to debrief the havoc he has invited into the house with his poor decisions. They spend the rest of the evening outside, on the porch, sitting on the shore of the sea of people but never again entering it.

Another time, it is a boring Tuesday afternoon—one of the last they’ll spend together like this, he notices. Bokuto is still helping him with his serves, again. His power has, finally, improved. So has Bokuto’s, he notices. Which is scary. His serve is consistently stronger than Oikawa’s now. His spikes rival Ushijima’s. Even when he’s off his game, his “bad” has become top 3, not top 5. The high school volleyball magazine has noticed, and reflects the change. All the seniors go out for drinks that night now that they’re all of age, while Akaashi waited patiently for the usual drunk Bokuto texts. They said they’d celebrate too—what is a spiker without his setter?—but never get around to it. The end of the term is busy. Instead, they practice in the few weeks they have left. Hand hits ball. Ball hits floor. Jump here for the hard flying serve. Angle here for the floating jump. He likes the regularity, the validation, the security of the whole thing, even as the time is numbered and seconds slip like sand through his reddened hand with each new serve. He runs to get an errant ball that didn’t quite float where he expected it to, and all of a sudden Bokuto is right there. Too close, like in the kitchen that New Year’s morning. He could do it, now. In the sweaty gym, with no art about it, he could close the distance. Lips hit lips. Muscle to hand, body to body.

Instead, a lump in his throat forms and threatens to break free. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says without thinking. 

“Yeah?” Bokuto asks, eyes still holding his.

“Yeah,” he chokes out and he thinks he’s about to cry, so he grabs him and hugs him so he won’t see. “Yeah,” he whispers as Bokuto hugs back, and then the tears fall. Not now, he thinks. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't necessarily recommend breaking up with your SO just because you've got a big test even if you do well on it, akaashi's just a bit of a dick from time to time, yaknow like a high school student.


	6. Movement

He’s sitting in his crisp suit watching the seniors one by one come up to the stage. It’s a gorgeous late Spring day, the sun is climbing up in a triumph. The cherry blossoms are in bloom. He can smell their fragrance and the expensive perfume of rich mothers wafting through the rows of white lawn chairs, laid out like neat, straight teeth. Private school graduation is quite an ordeal. This is the type of scene they put on brochures to court more rich mothers to send their kids here. The stage is full of students, as the principal brims with joy, his voice booming over the loud speakers. All of the underclassmen who came are gathered in the back. This isn’t for them, obviously. But a few come to see their friends graduate before they disappear, swallowed whole by college life. Before keeping in touch becomes untenable, before the threads holding them close inevitably fray and break.  
  
The ceremony is basic, and he’s quickly bored with the thing itself. Even though he doesn’t care about the school choir and the paper garlands, he’s still full of nostalgia and anxiety, watching the past and the future merge to meet here. From his nosebleed seats he can see Bokuto’s mother, her hair pulled up high in a bun that looks more severe than the woman herself could ever be. Seated next to her is Kuroo, dressed up in a neat suit for once. He lied and said he was Bokuto’s cousin or some shit and got in with a family ticket. When Bokuto goes to take his diploma, the school proudly announcing which colleges or whatnot each of its students go off to next, everyone claps with pride when they here Tokyo University. After, he tries to stick around to see Sarukui and Shirofuku and Washio and Komi graduate, but it’s alphabetical order. After Konoha, he can’t stand to sit there for the whole thing, imagining Bokuto leaving, the rest of them gone from the school by the end of the day. Banished from this life, the one they built here together.  He can’t do this. He leaves.  
  


  
He walks out by the cherry blossom trees out back. They call it “the garden” when they’re making lunch plans in the nice weather, but the official name is more pretentious than that. The Botanical Grounds, or something similarly stupid. He leans back against the tough wood and feels the spring breeze whip its way through the leaves. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe and try to imagine all the ways they’ll keep in contact. Kuroo and Bokuto are sharing an apartment just off campus (a block away at most) an he’s already memorized the train route to get there. They’ll text, they’ll call, he can stop by whenever, it should be easy. It should be easy, and yet he still can’t breathe.

  
  
“Akaashi?”  
  
He sighs, tries to quiet his thoughts before he straightens up and looks over at Bokuto.  
   
“Did the ceremony end already?” He asks, trying to sound casual.  
  
“Yeah,” he nods, fixing him with an odd look. “I saw you leave, and I wasn’t sure--” he’s not sure how to finish the sentence, “yeah.”  
  
“You didn’t have to come looking for me, I’m fine, just needed a second.”  
  
“Yeah,” he nods. When Bokuto gets quiet, he gets painfully earnest. “Same.” He sighs, running his hands over his face, his shoulders visibly deflate now that he’s gotten space from the pomp and ceremony and expectations.  
  
Akaashi watches him for a second, quietly appraising as another breeze captures the flowers and branches, frenzying them in an instant, quiet again in another.  
  
“If I told you,” he hesitates, then decides _fuck it. fuck this shit_ , “If I told you I was in love with you, what would you say?” Akaashi asks, staring at the ground. The trees. The anything, but those eyes.  
  
There’s a pregnant pause and Akaashi tries to fight the feeling to just run in the opposite direction.  
  
“What?” Bokuto stares at him, his face too expressive for his own good. “Akaashi--”  
  
“Nevermind,” he cuts in. He decides he can’t actually do this. His whole body is telling him to abort mission.  
  
“Akaashi, I—“  
  
“I said nevermind,” he says more forcefully, “I was kidding, nevermind,” almost cruel, almost savage. He can’t help himself as he kicks at the gravel by the cherry blossom tree. This is stupid. This is an anime, he thinks. And he won’t have it. “It was a dumb joke, forget it, just forget it.”  
  
“Akaashi—“  
  
“So just—yeah. Have fun,” he says, finally looking up. He doesn’t trust his mouth to contort the right way, monstrous thing it is. He feels his body a grotesque shape, an awkward conjugation of bones that’s being scrutinized right now. He wants to peel his skin off. He can’t stand the sweat prickling the back of his neck. He can’t take the way his heart is a lump, pushing up his esophagus. None of his parts are in the right place under Bokuto’s gaze.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. Unsure what to do with those words. Bokuto’s clearly uncomfortable now and Akaashi feels like the worst. “You should visit, you know.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that be weird?” Akaashi asks, looking away instinctively. “You’re gonna be in college, you don’t seriously want all your high school friends just fucking around when you could hang out with other real college people your own age and everything.”  
  
“Please,” he says quickly, too quickly. “No, please, please do it for me. Please visit. Please stop by whenever, I move in on the 3rd, I’ll give you a key.”  
  
The staccato of feet coming toward them, the clip clop of Shirofuku’s kitten heels, he imagines, tapping along over to them and the tree. His own pulse outpaces her.  
  
“Bokuto you’re going to be on a varsity team and have school and shit, why would you do that? You have to keep your grades up to stay on that, I can’t fuck up your life. I can’t possibly—“  
  
“Yeah, I’m gonna be busy with the college team, but I can’t quit the Fukurodani owls. I can’t,” he interjects. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to this place,” he laughs, bitterly. Self-depracating at his own dependence, marveling at his failure of flight. “That’s why I’m out here right now, I don’t know what to do at that stupid ceremony. I don’t know anything.”  
  
Akaashi doesn’t know how to respond. Time feels like it’s rushing past at a snail’s pace. He wants to cry or just disappear. He wants to. He wants.  
  
“Keiji, I need you,” Bokuto says quietly, unsure at how the name rolls out of his mouth. “Keiji,” he sighs. He fidgets and scrubs his face with his hands, he doesn’t look like a senpai now. Just another teenager in an ill-fitting suit. “I,” he frowns, “I don’t know anything without you.”  
  
“You’re such a sap,” he laughs. A tear stains his collar, then another hits his lapel. He can’t stop talking. He can’t stop crying. “You’re such a terrible sap, you can’t call me that today,” he half-yells, a guileless machine just making noise because he doesn’t know what else to do with his mouth if he can't kiss him. “You can’t do that when you’re gonna get in that car and never come back to play for us. You can’t.”  
  
Bokuto hugs him. His nose hits Bokuto’s shoulder and before he can stop his fingers (they always have a mind of their own) they’re holding the back of his jacket, fisting it so tight it might tear the thing to ribbons. He might tear him apart.  
  
He quiets, here. This hug feels different. It’s not a celebration at the end of a game. It’s not an awkward goodbye walking home from school. This hug feels--  
  
“Hey! There you two are!”  
  
And then he’s two steps back, again. He wipes his face in a swift motion before Shirofuku can see. He’s fine. He breathes. He swallows. Bokuto looks surprised, but Akaashi’s heart is finally back down in his chest where it’s supposed to be. He’s fine. He breathes.  
  
“Yeah, sorry. The ceremony’s a lot,” Akaashi explains. “We just wanted to get some air.”  
  
She looks at him, oddly. He wonders if his eyes are a little red still. He can feel the bit of snot still threatening in his nose, “I’m gonna head inside,” he excuses himself. “I think my allergies are acting up under the tree.” It’s a lame getaway but it’s all he can do now, scurrying like a small animal, like a wounded bird, crippled out of the air.  
  
He turns in the opposite direction and goes, walks anywhere. He knows Bokuto is still standing there, he can feel his eyes staring blankly into his back. He’s terrible, he knows. He’s managed to make today all about himself. He’s gluttonous, taking too much of everyone’s time.  
  
He takes the long way back to the tents where parents and students and teachers all mingle like a waning wedding reception, too formal for a high school graduation, but that’s what private money can get you. White stiff peaks when the tent poles reach for the sky. Air-conditioning pumped out to the party just as the sun reaches its zenith. Shrimp puffs and mini shortcakes.  
  
“Yo,” Kuroo greets him by the drinks as Akaashi wets a napkin in a water glass to wipe his face.  
  
“Hm,” he grunts back, not ready for this shit yet.  
  
“You gonna make it?” He leans in, and Kuroo invading his personal space is the last thing he wants right now. “You don’t look good, it’s hot today—do you need to sit down?”  
  
“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “I’ll drink this and be fine.”  
  
Kuroo nods, unconvinced and he’s not sure if it’s because he is still worried for his health or because he noticed he was just crying, not suffering from heatstroke. “Bokuto ran off right after the ceremony ended, did you see him?”  
  
He nods, “Yeah, it’s,” he sighs, “It’s gonna be hard without you guys here, I was just telling him that.” Not a total lie, but it’ll suffice.  
  
“Yeah, but we’ll both be close,” he nudges him with the start of a smile, a half-attempt to cheer him up. “Besides, since we’ll be living together, you can kill two birds with one stone when you visit all the time.”  
  
“You’re literally on the other side of the city.”  
  
“That’s no excuse and you know it,” he corrects, grabbing more chocolate-dipped strawberries. “So cheer up, or I’ll tell your mother you’re moping, and she’ll make you cheer up.”  
  
He huffs a laugh, or chokes it down, or almost starts crying again but hides it. He doesn’t know. A rusted sound comes out his throat and the air feels lighter. He feels frail in the spring breeze, his brittle emotions strain here to make sense of themselves. “Fine! Ugh, fine,” he relents.  
  
“You knew you were always welcome, I don’t know why you keep trying to un-invite yourself.”  
  
He shrugs, “Maybe I’m just a masochist.”  
  
“Well that much is obvious just by looking at you, I just didn’t realize you like crying like you’re on a goddamn soap opera.”  
  
“What do you mean?” He frowns, “How the hell do I look like it?”  
  
Kuroo raises a single eyebrow. “With an ass like that? You poor thing, you don’t even know.” With that, he heads out, going over to the rest of the Fukurodani seniors he’s gotten to know over the years. Akaashi continues to nurse his water, trying to convince himself it’ll all be fine.  
  
  
  
The next day, they’re packing the car. Akaashi said he’d stop by, so he does. Left to his own devices, Bokuto reverts to a nocturnal sleep schedule almost immediately. Akaashiknows his mother will let him too, now that Todai of all places is the next step. So he gets there at 17:00 and just hopes Bokuto is indeed a person by that hour.  
  
He isn’t. But it’s fine. He is an expert with putting up with Bokuto's shit by now. He sits and talks with Bokuto’s mother, sweetest woman in the universe, until he’s ready to start sorting through his possessions, picking what goes and what can’t. The trophies, Akaashi reminds him, are dead weight and he’ll obviously get more of them. It’s lame to have middle and high school trophies in college, Bokuto agrees. A few volleyball slogan t-shirts are fine, but the fifteen Bokuto has collected since middle school is pushing it. Akaashi tells him to pick out five, but eight end up in the "to Todai" pile. None of the old, chewed up pens make it into the keep box. The tension from yesterday has mostly dissipated, though every once in a while he sees Bokuto looks at him a little oddly. He dares Bokuto, mentally at least, to ask about yesterday. He’s not sure if that’s masochistic or sadistic.    
  
Because they started so late, the sun already on its way down the horizon just as they get their shit together and really start making piles and lists of all his shit: this goes, this stays, this gets thrown out, make sure you buy this. They call Kuroo every once in a while to check what he’s bringing—do they need a hot plate or is he bringing it? They squabble over speakerphone about how big Bokuto and Kuroo remember the kitchen from the last time they checked the place out, how many closets were there again? If you put a cat poster in the living room, Bokuto is allowed to bring his owl one. It doesn’t feel quite like an end like it did yesterday, and he’s thankful for it. The universe hasn’t shifted too much after the ceremony. Physics still work the same way.  
  
“Hey hey,” he says, a yawn gobbling up the last of his usual phrase, “I got you the thing,” he says, from the floor, pulling out different miscellany from under his bed, as Akaashi is grabbing another box of DVDs from the top of his bookshelf.  
  
“The thing?” he asks as he drops it down on the desk and leafs through.  
  
“Yeah, one sec,” he goes to his wallet, also on the desk, and pulls out a key. “I told you I’d get you one.”  
  
He blinks. “Oh, oh you actually—“  
  
“Yeah. So stop by whenever,” he says as he puts it in Akaashi’s hand. “Seriously, Akaashi.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, staring at it. “Yeah, okay.”  
  
Bokuto beams, and claps a hand to his shoulder, squeezing for a second before he’s off, back to the floor.  
  
Akaashi stares at the key another second before pocketing it and returning to the DVDs too.  
  


 

  
Unsurprisingly, to Akaashi at least, Bokuto falls asleep not too long after, limbs splayed out across his carpet. Leave the boy horizontal, and he’ll naturally come to rest. He figures he’ll probably turn in soon as well—he can’t throw anything out without Bokuto’s approval, those are the terms, even though there is no earthly reason why anyone needs two copies of Die Hard II.    
  
Just as he decides to grab a bit of floorspace, he catches it through the window for a second. He’s not sure if it was a cloud passing, or an owl casting an odd shadow, but he could’ve sworn he saw it. A wing and then another, big and black, moving fast through the sky in front of the moon. The huge backlighting rendering it darker than pitch, than coal, than the night. The stars a mosaic as it jets across the sky, and just as he heads to the window to really look for it, it’s gone.  
  
He hopes it was an owl. Yeah, he thinks, that’s probably it.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispers to himself, a tiny smile. “That’s a good sign.”  
  
And he believes it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, i'm splitting these into different parts, so this ends part 1 of this longass story. 
> 
> i graduated from college two days ago. i cried the whole way to my graduation dinner. i am wrecked. as Beyonce said, the past and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a fucking curse.


End file.
